Personal
by Abby the Band Nerd
Summary: He used her, mistreated her, and when it came down to it; he hated her. And she hated him just as much- maybe. Amanda/Hoffman


**Rated M for:**

**Sexual Content**

**Language**

**Specific Warning: Unhealthy relationship, some physical abuse.**

* * *

"Dammit Mark, you don't understand!" She was screaming again. No matter what the situation was, Amanda _always _had something to protest. In this moment, it happened to be Mark's inability to _understand—_but with her, nothing ever seemed to be right. Every single disagreement; every differing moral, every clashing opinion, every unshared ideal—it all came back to _somebody_ failing to understand Amanda.

"Please, Amanda. Please explain to me how it is that I don't understand _you_ and your _bullshit logic._" He smashed the wrench down on the table, causing a resounding bang. Amanda drew back in shock—she hadn't expected him to react like this. But Mark was like a bomb, always waiting for the slightest shift in pressure to set him off. She stood there without saying a word. "No response. Exactly." He picked up the wrench and went back to work. She allowed the lingering silence to help dissolve the tension before speaking again.

"You know, you aren't fucking _special_, Mark," she muttered. He dropped the wrench and wiped a hand down his face.

"Neither are you. And besides," he started, turning to look at her. "That's irrelevant. This is about how I _don't understand_ you. Not about who's_ special_ and who isn't."

"What's there to understand? I'm a troubled girl who got saved, and taken in," she spoke, and took a few steps forward. "And I work with you. We have to get along, Mark. For John."

"All I have to do for John is make new traps and keep things quiet in police investigations." He smoothed his fingers through his hair before putting his hand down. "I don't have to like you. As a matter of fact, I don't have to do shit for you."

"John trusts us to carry on his legacy," she reminded him. Her voice was cold, but Mark turned away from her. "The least you can do is pull your head far enough out of your ass that you can _pretend_ to have some respect for me."

"I don't have respect for drug addicts." The sentence was completely monotone, free of any semblance of emotion.

"Oh go to Hell, Mark," she spat. "I don't care if alcohol's legal, it's still an addiction. How are you any better than me?"

"I drank because I was troubled," he retorted, the intensity in his voice causing Amanda to flinch.

"Fuck you. You don't _know_ troubled!" she shouted, surprised at her own ferocity. There was no hesitation from Mark— he stood up swiftly, knocking his chair back as he did so. Amanda's body stiffened with terror as he stormed towards her; Mark was physically intimidating, and as he approached her, she realized she was trapped.

"Say it again, I fucking dare you," he growled. Her eyes widened into two full orbs on her face, wavering with sheer terror. She opened her mouth, trying to utter a response of sorts. In a fit of pure rage, he shot out his hand and closed it around her throat. "I understand you didn't love your family—but I did. I had Angelina, and I fucking loved her, more than someone like _you_ could even imagine." She was sputtering and straining for air, but he only tightened his grip. "You didn't see her, Amanda. You didn't fucking see her there, bloody and broken," his voice was straining, as if he was holding back tears. "You weren't there when I found her. You didn't see me die inside. You didn't fucking see it." She pried at his fingers with sharp nails, but he refused to release her. "I loved her, and he just took her from me."

_And if I kill you now, I'll be a murderer_—_just like Seth Baxter._

He unclasped his fingers from her throat, and she stumbled back, clutching her chest as she regained her breath. Amanda stared up at him, eyes fully opened. He simply walked away, and sat back down to continue his work.

"Get out." It wasn't a question, or even a suggestion. It was a demand, and she knew that if she disobeyed, there would be repercussions. Without a second thought, she exited the room, and closed the door behind her. When she heard it click shut, she collapsed to the ground with her back against the metal, and she sighed into her hands.

Amanda was capable of loving, but the unmoveable hatred she and Mark shared would keep him from realizing it. But of course, she knew how to love. She'd loved John from the moment he'd rescued her from her life of addiction.

As a matter of fact, she loved John with every fiber of her being. It was never romantic; it was simply the same blind obedience a dog may share for its owner. He saved her, he sheltered her, he mentored her in the art of rehabilitation— she was easily pliable at his fingertips.

However working with Mark had proven a challenge countless times. He was always on the verge of a breakdown, but it often took the smallest incident to trigger him. Grand gestures rarely set him off. And he was violent, and cold, and she loathed him in a way that made her stomach twist in disgust. But if John wanted them to work together, she would try her hardest to make it happen.

* * *

He'd finished screwing some metal plates together when he heard the door creak open. Without taking a glance her way, he scowled.

"Go away," he muttered. There was a moment of silence before she spoke back.

"I'm sorry, Mark." Her words were coated with sincerity, and there was no hint of mockery in the apology.

"Okay." His stillness as he spoke was rather unnerving, and it gave Amanda chills. It always had; the way a human could be so immalleable and frigid was beyond her. All sense of warmth had left the detective long ago.

"Mark, please," she whined, hoping to catch his attention. He remained seated with his eyes fixed forwards, not budging an inch. The silence started to sink in, and she made another attempt to distract him.

"Mark, look at me." It was apparent by the sound of her voice that she was growing impatient.

"No." There was no hesitation in his response. He could feel her glare shooting daggers into the back of his head.

"Why?" It was less a question than it was a retort, but Mark still had his answer.

"How stupid do you think I am?" he spoke, frustration evident in his tone. "We've been through this before. You're standing in front of the door, wearing some lacy underwear—maybe you're even naked. You're looking for an apology fuck, because you think that you can always make things right by being _sleazy._ You think this is sexy, when in reality..." he turned around, looking her over. Her figure was gaunt; her ribs and hipbones jutted out at uncomfortable angles, and her shape was that of a short beanpole. She was nearly curveless, and she stood a few inches shorter than him. Horizontal scars were a garish contrast to her pale skin, and they were almost accented by the black of her undergarments. Her scars caused disgust to stir within him. "...Your 'pity-me' scars are a turn off." He turned back around to continue working.

"Kill yourself." The amount of contempt she packed into those two words was nearly profound.

"I'm surprised you haven't." The lack of emotion in his response caused Amanda to bite her lip so she maintained her composure.

"Why don't you just come kill me, then?" She was slightly too serious for the remark to qualify as sarcastic, but Mark couldn't care less one way or the other.

"Fuck you."

There was a beat of silence.

"Is that an invitation?" He could practically hear her smirk, and the thought of a smug expression plastered on her face caused him an unnecessary deal of frustration. She was taking steps in his direction.

"Leave, Amanda." He was rapidly losing his patience with her, and if she hadn't learned from her first warning earlier in the evening, he wouldn't warn her again. He wouldn't release her throat because she was running out of air— not this time. When she didn't respond, he listened carefully. Hushed footsteps were approaching his chair, and as soon as he caught sight of Amanda's arm swinging in front of him, he grabbed hold of her wrist without so much as glancing towards her. She let out a whimper, and tried to flick her wrist towards him. There was a knife in her hand— she'd tried to kill him.

"Now what the fuck is this about?" His voice was full of something she couldn't quite pin. It seemed to be a mixture of complete disappointment and detestment. But there was something else. Was it a hint of amusement? He stood up, tightening his grip on her arm. She writhed in pain, trying to wriggle free as Mark pushed her back. With his free arm, he reached out and seized a handful of her hair, holding close to the scalp to limit her movement. "I've been doing this for years before you. I've learned how to prepare for anything. You're just so predictable." She reached up to claw at him, and he tore his hand from her hair to grab hold of her other wrist. "Drop that knife."

"No," she spat, trying to lean forwards and headbutt him, but his fingers had moved slightly upwards, and he held tight around her forearms. He wasn't letting her go.

"You know full and well that I could break your arms," he cautioned her, pushing her into the wall. She struggled to push forwards, but he was holding her back securely. "Drop the knife right now, or I'll do it."

"I hate you," she whispered, and she let the knife fall to the ground. Mark kicked it across the room, and it slid underneath a file cabinet. He released her arms, and the change in pressure made her cringe. There would be bruising, and she knew it.

"Oh, yes. And I'm _so _fond of you," he replied, sarcasm heavy in his tone. She stepped forwards, but he pressed his hands to the wall beside her, stopping her from getting past him. Being pinned between a wall and Mark was not the most favorable of situations.

"What made you think that little stunt with the knife was a good idea?" It felt like the hostility had faded from his voice a bit, but Amanda could never be so sure. She sighed and pressed her hands to his chest, running her fingers under the lapels of his suit-jacket. When he didn't swat them away, she decided she was safe to talk.

"I think it's just how we get sometimes," she answered, sliding her hands up and wrapping her arms around his neck. She brought her lips to the side of his face, and kissed his jaw.

"You understand this means absolutely nothing," he spoke. She nodded her head. He wasn't one for pretty lies, and now wouldn't be the time to start. He truly detested Amanda, and the occasions when the two used each other as sexual relief meant nothing more. It was strictly for pleasure; the emotional stress of their situation often became too much to face alone. But they'd always go back to the same routine of mockery and death threats within hours.

She kissed him with an intensity one might relate to starving. He grabbed hold of her hips and pushed her back against the wall, returning the kiss with more force than she'd expected. But it wasn't unlike Mark to overpower her; she was used to it by now. He hoisted her up by her thighs, and she hooked her legs around his waist.

Her tongue traced along his bottom lip, as if begging for entry. He obliged without hesitation, kissing her back while she relearned the inside of his mouth. His taste was almost suffocating, and it was all too familiar. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and held her head closer to deepen the kiss. His other hand traced from her hips up over her ribs, and pushed behind her back to unclasp her bra. He managed it without fumbling; she'd worn the same one every time they'd been together. The straps slid along her shoulders, and she slipped her arms through to let it fall to the ground.

He yanked her hair downwards in one swift tug, which caused her face to turn up towards the ceiling. She resisted the urge to whimper; she knew that Mark was rough sometimes. He trailed fervorous kisses down the front of her throat, and she shivered every time his tongue met her skin. Occasionally she could feel his teeth against her flesh, but it wasn't worth acknowledging. His mouth lowered to her chest, and he made his way to her cleavage. He ran his tongue over her pale skin, which caused her to gasp rather loudly. Instead of proceeding to kiss her breasts, he let go of her hair and kissed her mouth again. She could feel his erection growing more prominent.

It had been only minutes, but Mark was growing impatient. He unclasped and unzipped his pants, letting them drop around his ankles. Amanda ran her hands over his chest, and worked at the top button on his jacket. He broke the kiss and pushed her fingers away.

"No," he spoke. "I don't have time to deal with getting dressed and undressed." Before she could answer, he grabbed hold of the elastic of her underwear. Not wanting to wait while she would slide the garment down her legs, he decided to try and bust it like a hair tie; the construction of a hair tie and a g-string weren't too different.

She fidgeted with discomfort as he stretched the band out to unfavorable lengths. The other side of the undergarment dug into her skin, and scratched at her flesh. He placed kisses in the crease of her neck, but it wasn't enough to distract her from the cutting pain of the elastic.

"I could just take them off," she whined, but he chose to ignore her. The band snapped and whipped at her skin, causing her to yelp. The side that remained intact slid down her thigh, while the fabric previously keeping her covered fell open, leaving her completely exposed. She wrapped her arms up around his back, lightly meeting the fabric of his jacket with her nails. They'd been through this enough for her to know that Mark would not be gentle.

He didn't take his time, either. He entered her without warning, and she cried out; there was no such thing as a gradual buildup with him. With each thrust she could feel the pain subsiding, and the typical response of pleasure crept in. It would be over soon, and she knew it. She could tell by his heavy breathing and occasional grunts that he was close to the edge— and so was she. It was like a fever spreading rapidly inside of her body; every time he bucked his hips she felt like the air in her body was escaping, only to be replaced by gratifying heat. It wasn't long before she came; as she hit her climax, her nails caught in the fabric of his suit, and her legs stiffened around his body. He followed shortly after, and her body trembled at the sticky warmth released inside of her; she'd found it disgusting the first few times they'd been together, but she'd grown to tolerate it.

He pulled out, and she unwrapped her legs and let her feet drop to the floor. She buried her face in the crease of his neck to catch her breath, but he pushed her away before she was breathing steadily.

"Now leave, please. I was working before you threw your fit, and I have to go back to what I was doing. I _know_ my responsibilities." He spoke without emotion. No tone of warmth, no semblance of caring—she felt stupid for hoping she could stay.

"Well I could help you, Mark. You know, I build these traps too," she said, almost too quiet for him to hear.

"Amanda," he snapped, buttoning his pants and heading back over to sit down. "I don't have time for this. We had our fun. Go pick up your clothes, and get out."

Of course he wanted her to leave. He'd taken advantage of her in a moment of weakness, gotten what he'd wanted, and decided that they were finished. She couldn't sit and talk; they wouldn't treat each other with respect. The closest thing to kindness they shared was sex, but it was simply sex; tactless fuck, meaningless like everything else in their relationship— save for their hatred.

She put her bra back on, and sighed as she found her underwear torn on the floor. She picked them up and walked into the hallway to grab her clothes. After she'd gotten fully dressed, she placed her hand on the doorknob, daring herself to open it. But she didn't. She knew she'd just get told off, maybe hit with a flying wrench, even choked. Mark was incredibly hostile, and she knew she would trigger him to snap. She'd already tried his patience by asking him to stay.

_I hate you._ Almost without realizing it, she slumped against the door and buried her face in her hands. _I fucking hate you._ He wouldn't ever care about her. To him, she was simply an object; he'd use her when he wanted something, and toss her aside, crumpled and broken when he was finished. And this cycle would be repeated too many times. _I __**really**__ fucking hate you._ She was in tears. Her shoulders shook with each sob, and she put her hand over her mouth to stay quiet. She wouldn't chance letting Mark hear her cry.

She wouldn't mind staying with him, and talking while he worked. As a matter of fact, having a friendly conversation with Mark wasn't just a thought to cross her mind; it was something she desired. That wasn't the extent of it, either. She wished that, just once, they could make love somewhere intimate, as opposed to fucking on a dirty wall. There would be no rush to finish and leave, either. He would be gentle; he'd place soft kisses over her scars, he'd take the time to slide her clothing down over her skin— and when they'd finished, she could fall asleep against him instead of being pushed away. He could talk about his troubles, about Angelina, about his job, and she would listen.

As much as she wanted to believe her desires were plausible, reality was cruel. It hit her with a weight that was all too familiar, and all too unkind. _It would never happen. He hated her._ And this was true. But Amanda faced this emotional struggle after every intimate encounter she and Mark shared. _You understand this means absolutely nothing._ His words pounded in her head and caused a splitting pain throughout her entire body. She _understood_ that she meant nothing to him. But as much as she wanted to convince herself, to help her let go, she knew he meant something to her.

_The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally, there can be nothing. It can never be personal._ This, she knew better than anything. John had given her the rules, and if she'd learned anything about John and rules, it was that following his rules would lead to safety. Breaking his rules would lead to agonizingly cruel punishments. And she'd suffered enough. She stood up from the ground, wiping the tears away from her face with a shaking hand.

_I hate you, Mark._

And she meant it.

_Maybe._

* * *

**A/N: Hi guys. I know M Rated fics are a little out of the norm for me, but I just had to write this. I'm not sure what inspired it, but it happened. I'll try to update some of my chaptered fics soon, I swear. A special thanks to my editors, I really appreciated you guys dealing with me while I wrote this. Well, that's it. Goodbye for now!**


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